Candles, Spitting, and Absolute Darkness

I would like to share three memories with you.

The first dates from the early 1970s when there was a miners’ strike (sciopero). This meant there were regular power cuts, and work was reduced to a three-day week. I remember that time because unusually my Dad was at home a lot. We had to use candles much of the time when the electricity was cut, otherwise there was no light. 

My Dad taught me how to make animal shapes in the shadows from the candles. We would run our fingers sideways through the flames. And we would talk a lot, and tell stories. Interestingly, when the statistics were published afterwards, it seemed that people were close to achieving in three days at work what they usually managed to do in five.

A second memory. An assembly given by my Headmaster at school. The Head was a very solemn and stern man, always wore a gown like Batman. This particular day, he had discovered that some boys had been spitting. He delivered a very strong warning about this, saying that spitting was what caused the plague in the Middle Ages (It was more complicated than that.) He was almost spitting with rage by the end of his address.

A third memory. Sadly we took very few trips at my school. But one I remember vividly. It was to the Blue John Mine in Derbyshire, England. The Blue John Mine is a series of deep caves that you enter with a guide. Our school group went inside, and at one moment the guide asked if any of us had ever experienced darkness. We all put up our hands. He wagged his finger, and said, ‘No – how many of you have experienced real darkness?’ A few of us still tentatively raised our hands. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘How many of you have experienced darkness so total that it’s like absolute blackness?’ Now, none of us raised our hands. 

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m going to show you total darkness. Absolute blackness. In a moment I’m going to turn off the lights.’ He counted down from five. ’Five. Four…’ A girl I didn’t like called Linda grabbed my hand. ‘Three…’ A little cruelly, and conscious that others might see me holding Linda’s hand, I shook it off. ‘Two. One. Zero.’ He pulled a lever. The lights went out. There was total blackness. A void. Nothing. 

It was like one of those films I’d seen where an astronaut becomes unhooked from the mothership and floats off into an abyss of infinite dark space. There was also complete silence. Actually, not complete silence, for we could hear the very slow dripping of water from the stalactites echoing round the vast chamber. 

I wanted Linda to hold my hand again. But then something magical began to happen. Out of the darkness started to appear these small points of light. Blue and yellow. Tiny glimmers, like stains on the darkness. They were definitely there. Or was I imagining them?

Then the lights were switched back on again. It seemed like they had been off for a long time, but probably it was only around thirty seconds. The girls all said how terrifying it was. The boys shrugged and said it was nothing, even though I knew we were afraid. 

The guide asked if we had seen something – anything – in the darkness. After a little hesitation, some of us said that we had in fact seen something: these tiny shining bits of light. ‘Yes, good,’ the guide said. We had not been mistaken. ‘Those are the Blue John minerals in the wall.’   

Looking back, I take several things from these three memories of my childhood. First, it was great having both my parents home to talk to during the miners’ strike. I really learnt something from them, and we grew closer as a family at that time.

Second. People often raise the spectre of the plague, when this is not actually the case. Bad and very concerning as it is, the Coronavirus is not the plague. It is not anthrax, or even smallpox. It is certainly not Ebola. So, it’s important to keep things in perspective.

Third. Even when things seem very dark and bleak, and you might feel frightened, there are always points of light waiting for us to glimpse and follow – as well as people (I’m so sorry, Linda) offering to lend a comforting hand.

Chris Greenhalgh
Principal & CEO